The Plunge
by MollyMack
Summary: "The Plunge" is my 2018 Sybil x Tom Secret Santa Exchange story, written for coffeebean87. Tom Branson nearly drowned as a child, and the experience still haunts him in times of stress. At a Christmas party given by best friends Gwen and John, the nightmare returns, perhaps because he's thinking of asking Sybil The Question. Can he survive this love? Modern AU


_"_ _The Plunge" is my 2018 Sybil x Tom Secret Santa Exchange story, written for coffeebean87. The prompt was:_ _Gwen and her husband are throwing their first Christmas party as a married couple. Tom and Sybil attend. While at the party, Tom begins to think about proposing. So here we go…_

He was going to die.

 _I'm too young, I haven't done anything yet. This can't be happening!_ He saw his pitiful life flashing past, images from his eight short years on earth, and he knew he had to fight. He couldn't leave his parents, his friends, his memories in this wet alien world. But his body wouldn't listen. His eyes stared upward as the current pulled him down, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was angry, and sad, and then it didn't matter anymore. He let himself go, and opened his mouth to let in the welcome water, and felt…nothing. His throat had closed, and the world turned yellow, then black, then a brilliant white. Was this Heaven?

He was turned on his side and felt sand on his face as he retched up the Irish Sea. He opened his eyes, and there was his mother, crying and thanking God, and his best friend Billy, face whiter than paper. A man was kneeling beside him, and in the distance he heard the shrill keen of an ambulance.

Tom Branson snapped out of his daydream as his phone lit with a text. Sybil.

 _Are you almost here? Wait till you see what I'm wearing! Happy Christmas, darling!_

 _Shite._ He was running late for Gwen and John's Christmas party—he should have been on the road already. _What the hell's wrong with me?_ As he threw on his clothes he wondered about the too vivid images from his past. The nightmare used to happen only under times of great stress…his father's death, the night before his first day at the paper…but lately it seemed to be occuring more frequently, and now it was happening while he was awake.

He remembered nothing of his near drowning as a young boy, but the images were so real, so terrifying, that he wondered if his heart could withstand the constant assault. The murmur that normally presented no symptoms had been discovered that day in the hospital. Wouldn't it be ironic if the nightmare stopped his heart, twenty-one years after he had been pulled unconscious from the sea?

But it made no sense, he wasn't under great stress these days. In fact, his life couldn't be more perfect. The job of his dreams, political correspondent for the _Guardian_ in London, had become his just three months before. He was already making a name for himself. The pay had been commensurate with the promotion, and he had found the perfect flat just last week. Two bedrooms, one that would be perfect for an office, or as a nursery when the time came—

 _What the hell? Where had that come from?_ He wasn't even married, not even engaged. He had no business thinking about that sort of thing!

But Tom knew where the errant thought had come from. Perfect job, perfect flat…perfect girl. He allowed a smile to spread over his face as he thought of her. His Sybil. At least, he hoped she was his.

Tom Branson and Sybil Crawley had been dating for a year, the best year of his life. She was his ideal in so many ways—political, passionate about human rights and equality, empathetic. Not to mention gorgeous, with her wild dark hair and violet-blue eyes that a man could get lost in, and a smile that lit up the room. A perfect match, in every way but one.

Socially, _Lady_ Sybil Crawley was miles above him. She was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, although she refused to allow anyone to use her title and avoided the kinds of events that would draw the interest of the gossip columnists. She was studying to become a nurse, which apparently irritated her parents no end. Tom had met them once, a few months ago at a garden party held at their ridiculous pile, Downton Abbey. They had kindly overlooked his gaping awe at what they called a house and had been friendly, at least until they'd heard his accent and learned how he and Sybil had met.

He'd been driving her to a Christmas party in the city, in his part time capacity as a London black cab driver. She'd been friendly, but her breeding was stamped all over her—posh, upper class speech, clothes that dripped money and privilege. Beautiful, but not his type at all. Until she forced him into conversation, her husky voice asking him his opinion on the abortion rights of women in his own country.

"Do you think Ireland will be successful in getting rid of the Eighth Amendment?" she asked, after hearing him speak. "I mean, Mr. Branson," she said, checking his name on the licence posted on the dashboard, "do you think it's fair that women in Ireland are allowed no control over their own bodies?" She had pinned him with her beautiful blue eyes, demanding his opinion, and he was lost. They had spent the rest of the drive trading political and ethical opinions on the status of women in general and Irish women in particular, and when the cab had arrived at its destination she had refused to get out.

"I'm starving. Do you know a good pub around here? I'll treat you to fish and chips." And that had been the beginning. He knew it couldn't last, she was too far above him. After meeting her family, he'd been sure of it. And yet, here they were a year later, still going strong. As he pulled up outside Sybil's flat, he wondered for the hundredth time if he were fooling himself, if this love had a chance to last. Because for him, it was love. He was well and truly gone, there would never be anyone else for him. But was what he felt for her strong enough to overcome centuries of societal rules? More importantly, was what _she_ felt for _him_ strong enough? He knew she loved him, but…

And then he forgot everything, as Sybil dashed out of the flat and threw herself into the car. Under the Irish sweater coat he had bought her for their six month anniversary, she was wearing one of those form-fitting dresses that looked like a bunch of bandages, wrapped strategically around her perfect curves. It was a soft shade of lavender that made her eyes take on a deep violet hue. One of his favorites, although a burlap bag would look sexy on Sybil. Today, however, the whole look was adding to his anxiety and causing his stomach to flip.

 _God, she's gorgeous. Whatever gave me the idea that I deserved this?_ Tom clenched his hands on the wheel. _What the hell's wrong with me? Why can't I enjoy what I have right now?_

"We're late, Gwen's going to skin us alive! What on earth kept you?" Sybil leaned over and kissed his cheek to show he was forgiven. He gave her a wan smile, put the car in gear, and pulled into the motorway.

"Uh, just daydreaming. Sorry."

Sybil's face fell, but Tom didn't notice, as his eyes were on the road. They drove the short distance to Gwen and John's new flat in an oddly strained silence, each lost in thought. As they neared their destination, he reached for her hand, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

 _Maybe it's going to be all right_. _But he's different, preoccupied._ _Something's off._ A frisson of fear shot through her at the thought.

 _I think I'm losing him._

Sybil's normally vibrant smile was fixed, as she contemplated a life without Tom. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was something at the paper.

 _Maybe it's me._

Tom made an effort to pull himself out of his funk as he maneuvered the car into a small space a block down from the new townhouse that their friends had just closed on a month ago. Tonight was Gwen's night, hers and John's, and he was not going to let his own stupid fears spoil the evening for them. Gwen and her husband John were their best friends, and this party was a celebration of their love and hard work.

When Tom helped Sybil out of the car, he pulled her in for a quick hug. As they walked up the walk to the charming home, Tom determined to leave his worries behind for tonight. Gwen and John deserved better than a wet blanket as a guest.

Tom had known Gwen since their first days in London, when she was the receptionist at Black Cabs of London and he was a part time driver, fresh over from Dublin. They had bonded over their mutual desire to rise above the circumstances of their birth, and had helped each other along the path.

He'd practiced his editing skills by critiquing her homework for the secretarial course she was taking. In turn, she had typed his reports for him when he had gotten his first job as a stringer at the _Guardian._ Tom had let Gwen know about a secretarial opening in the real estate department of the paper, and had talked her up with anyone who would listen until they got weary of him and interviewed her. Gwen was good, that was all she'd needed.

As his best friend, Gwen was the first person he'd introduced to his new girlfriend, Sybil Crawley. The two had hit it off from the first time they'd met. And one day Sybil had told Gwen that a doctor at the hospital where she was training to be a nurse, a charming young man named John Stafford, had asked about her pretty red-headed friend.

Within three months Gwen had moved in with her doctor, quitting her job at the paper to become John's office manager when he set up his first practice. Two months later they'd been married, in a simple ceremony held at St. Anne's Church on Dean Street in London. Sybil was Gwen's maid of honor, and to Tom's surprise, John had asked him to be best man. The four had been inseparable ever since.

"Tom! Sybil, you horrible people!" The door was flung open and Gwen yanked them both into the house. "You're late! I've been waiting to take you on the grand tour!"

"My fault," Tom said. "Please don't hurt me." He cringed and held his hands up to ward off Gwen's imaginary blow. She laughed.

"That's not like you, Tom." She shook a finger at him. "Now Sybil I can see being late. But you? Anyway, here comes John. Let's go." Gwen was almost dancing in her excitement, and Tom felt a surge of affection for his friend. Everything was going to be all right. He grinned at Sybil and took her hand, following Gwen and John as they showed off their new home.

The house was lovely. Christmas greenery and tasteful yuletide touches were everywhere in the small house that had been decorated in Gwen's distinctive style. Pictures were everywhere—collages of candid shots that captured the couple's life and loves. Tom and Sybil were in a lot of them, and as he studied the images he found himself drifting again, his memories of their time together swirling through his imagination.

Tom reached out and touched a picture of the four of them on vacation in Brighton last summer. Sybil's face was turned up to his, and she was smiling. He remembered the day as if it were yesterday. Tom didn't swim and never went near the water, so they had stayed back on the blanket while Gwen and John frolicked in the surf and splashed each other. The ocean was fine, if you liked it, but you didn't really need any more than a blanket, and a woman with violet eyes and soft hands that knew just where to go…

"Tom?" Three pairs of eyes were staring at him. He flushed, and chuckled. "Sorry. The house is beautiful. You've really worked magic here, Gwen."

"Hey," protested John. "What am I, chopped liver? I mean, my lovely wife here is amazing in every way," he smiled tenderly at Gwen, "and she _did_ supervise the decorating, but there was a lot of man work involved too, you know. I hung the mistletoe!"

Tom laughed, glad the attention was off him and back where it belonged. This was what life should be. Great friends, good conversation…and Sybil. He watched her laughing with Gwen, hands dancing in that way that was hers alone, and wondered if he should take the plunge. Just ask her, he thought. There'll never be a better time. Just get her alone and ask her, for God's sake.

But the moment was snatched away. Sybil was staring at him, an odd look on her face, and in the next second Gwen had whirled her away to look at something in the kitchen. Tom sighed.

Gwen pulled Sybil into the tiny room that served as John's office, and sat her down. "Now, darling," she said, gazing into her friend's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I think Tom's going to leave me," Sybil said, her voice low and trembling. "He's been acting strange lately…all jittery and nervous, as if he wants to tell me something but is scared to. He seems so on edge. What if he doesn't have the heart to tell me that he's met someone else?" Her eyes radiated the agony she'd been feeling for days, maybe weeks.

Gwen pulled her in. "Tom loves you, Sybil. I know him better than anybody, and I can tell you he's never been happier than since he met you." She shook her friend gently. "He's also very intense, and he wears his worries like a new shirt. It's probably about work. Don't let your imagination make it more than that. Trust him, Sybil." She pulled her to her feet. "Do you hear me?"

Tom and John stood at the bar in the basement. This room was John's pride and joy, the one part of the house that had been his to design and supervise. No frilly Christmas nonsense here, this was a man's room. The bar was tiny but perfect, with racks and niches for his collection of beer mugs and a mirrored shelf to hold his favorite whiskeys. John leaned on the bar and stared at his friend.

"So what's the problem, Tom? You've been quiet all night, which is a lovely thing, as you usually never shut up—he fended off a punch—but it's making me squirm. So, doctor's orders, 'fess up. What's the deal?"

"It's Sybil. Tom's voice was raw. "I was thinking of asking her…you know…asking her…" He stumbled to a halt, took a deep breath and began again. "But I'm afraid to ruin what we have. We've been so happy, I just can't accept that it's real." His blue eyes were bleak. "What if it's all just a lark for her? You know, a frolic on the wild side, before she goes home to Lord Somebody or Other, to the life she's meant to live. She's fecking royalty, for God's sake!"

John thumped the cocktail shaker he was holding onto the bar and put his hands on his hips. "Are you insane? That girl loves you! Gwen says you're all she talks about, man!" He sent his eyes heavenward. "Tom this, Tom that. Tom says. Wonder what Tom thinks? It ain't no lark, and you're a first class shit for even suggesting it." He picked up a bottle of whiskey and poured two fingers into a glass. Then he grabbed a second glass and poured another.

"Drink that, and stop talking like an idiot. Trust her, Tom. Trust yourself." Snorting in disgust, he grabbed his glass and waved it at Tom. "Do not. Bollocks. This. Up." And he walked away with his glass, shaking his head.

Tom drank his whiskey and chased it with another. He sat alone at the bar for a long time, thinking. Why not just do it? Get it over with, ask her. What could he lose? Only everything, he thought as pain at the thought of a life without Sybil knifed through him. Foregoing the third whiskey that beckoned to him, he stood up. _About time to pull up your big boy pants and be a man, Tom Branson._

Sybil sat alone in the office after Gwen left to go back to her guests. Her head hurt from all the thinking, her heart felt as if it was going to tear itself out of her chest and run away. The fear was palpable. Gwen was wrong, she knew it. Something was wrong with Tom, and she was going to have to suck it up and find out what it was. If it was the worst, she would face it. She was a Crawley, she'd get through it. Her life was hers to command, with or without him. Without him…oh God! She forced herself up and turned toward the doorway. Tom stood there, his face white as chalk, his eyes dark and unreadable.

He couldn't breathe. It was happening again. He was going to die. He was staring at Sybil, at the love of his life, and he felt himself sinking, back into that wet world that had nearly claimed him so long ago. Drowning, and he could do nothing to stop it. His throat closed…

No! Tom forced himself to reach for her. It was _not_ going to happen this time. He latched onto the vision of her face, held it. "S-sybil?" His voice came out as a croak. She was staring at him, her face as white as his. Waiting.

Tom went down on one knee. "Sybil C-Crawley, I know your p-parents want more than me for you…I know you can do so much b-better, but…" his voice picked up speed, became stronger. He had to get it out. "Bet on me. I love you with everything I have. Your family will come around, and until they do, I promise to devote every waking minute to…"

He stopped speaking as a hand came over his mouth, and then arms went around him, squeezing the little breath he had left out of his body.

"Oh, Tom! Oh, oh…". Sybil was kneeling on the floor in front of him, crying, and hugging him…and hitting him. Her fists pounded on his chest, just like those of the man on the beach so many years ago. "You scared me to death, Tom Branson! I thought you were going to leave me! I am so angry, and relieved, and…wait!" She stopped and leaned back, her eyes wide. "You _are_ asking me to marry you, aren't you?"

Tom grinned and gathered her into his arms. "Yes, crazy girl. Marry me. Have children with me. Just stop hitting me!"

He struggled to his feet, pulling her up with him. "I was afraid you would say no," he admitted, his voice hoarse. Her fingers came up and wiped something from his face, and he realized that he was crying. She kissed him with a hunger born of relief and the passion he always roused in her.

"Wait! Are you saying yes?" Tom broke away and studied her. His eyes were an impossible blue, like the sea after a storm, shining with hope and love.

"Yes, you stupid man," she was gasping, and hiccuping, and laughing. How could you ever doubt how I feel?" _But didn't I just doubt how_ he _felt? Who's the stupid one here? Oh, who the hell cares! He's mine. Forever._

Tom looked into her beautiful eyes, eyes that shone just for him, and knew, somehow, that he wouldn't be having the drowning dream ever again. _She saved me. She saved me from myself._ He pulled his fiancée in, and the world went away.

This— _this_ was Heaven.


End file.
